


Tokyo

by ArliaDevi



Series: Destinations [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Destination story, F/M, Love, Oral Sex, Sweet Sex, Tokyo (City), Trains, collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-17 20:50:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4681058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArliaDevi/pseuds/ArliaDevi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya stays back at the hotel. A honeypot goes wrong. Gaby ruins her dress. And, Napoleon makes plans in Tokyo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tokyo

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so originally I was going for hot and heavy – but I have read a decent amount of fics that have been published since the film came out and they were ridiculously hot and ridicously heavy and just so good. So, without really knowing it, this turned out a lot softer than expected. It’s still hot, definitely, but it’s a little bit sweeter. I don’t know, maybe it was all the Michael Buble I was listening to. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

I

Illya paced the floor. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t relax. Where were they? Ideally, they should have infiltrated the Japanese press conference at 20:00, fled in an unmarked, indistinguishable white Toyota with Dr. Izuki, a scientific engineer for Ahura Corporate, a leading biomedical research company, handing him over to another U.N.C.L.E. agent waiting in the adjacent hotel before boarding a plane back to New York the following morning.  
  
Except now it was almost 22:00 and they were still in the Ahura building. Or so their trackers said.  
  
Illya fell into an armchair, his chin resting in his hand. On the magazine table, between all of the dossiers and intelligence was a duo of crystal tumblers and bottle of expensive whiskey. If it was vodka, he’d lean across and open it, pour a generous glass and try to calm the shake of his hands, or the biting of his lips.  
  
“So, Peril, you’re to stay back here, it seems – keep in contact with Vincent if he needs a quick extraction,” Solo said, lazily flicking through a dossier. “Gaby and I will be attending the press conference, apprehend Dr. Izuki, and then handing him off. Apparently, he’s been so dedicated to his work, he hasn’t checked in with the US government in six months.”  
  
“I do not like this,” Illya said evenly. “I do not want to stay in the suite.”  
  
Solo cleared his throat, his eyes slicing over to Gaby, who was doing her hair by the boudoir. “Well, it is a honeypot. Somehow, I’m not too sure you’d be Izuki’s type, Peril.”  
Illya huffed then, his eyes catching Gaby’s shoulder’s quivering in a giggle.  
  
“I still don’t like it.”  
  
“Calm down,” Solo said over the lip of his tumbler. “You’re starting to sound like a fussy mother.”  
  
Illya crossed his arms. “I am no mother.”  
  
And yet, here he was, doing nothing but fretting because it was now two and a half hours past their time due back from the mission, and he had no idea if everything was going to plan, and no communication, except for Vincent across the street – but he’d made his conversation short and not-very-sweet, stating he’d receive help from a Russian over his dead body. Illya certainly hoped it wouldn’t come to that.  
  
A crackle through the radio caught his attention. Quickly, he picked up.  
  
“They need back-up. Shinbashi train station. Platform 4, carriage 3, 11:13. There’s a taxi out the front.”  
  
Illya grabbed a weapon – a standard Walther PPK – and rushed out the door. Flying down the staircase, the black cab was waiting for him out the front. Without a single glance in the rear-view mirror, the driver sped out onto the road and weaved through the traffic. By 23:07, Illya was at Shinbashi station, pushing through passengers as he descended the staircases at a frantically dangerous place. The cool metal of his handgun pressed at his side as a small comfort.  
  
He waited for the train to pull up – six agonisingly long minutes. He surveyed the station, noted only four people getting on the train this late. By the train timetable, it would be the last for the night. In those six minutes, Illya cursed for not being allowed to go on the mission, for the danger his comrades could have been in. But then, he considered, his Japanese was not good, and frankly, a broad, blonde, tall Russian, he stuck out like Solo’s metaphorical sore thumb. Perhaps the hotel suite had been the best place for him, though he had not liked it one bit.  
  
The train pulled into the station. Illya followed the carriage up, walking in time with it, until it stopped. Through the window he could see Gaby curled against a window, a seat free beside her. Her jacket, once white and undoubtedly Chanel, was torn and smudged in dirt, and her face was hidden against the wall.  
  
Illya climbed on and looked around – a mother and her two children, who were reading quietly. An old man reading the newspaper with thick glasses. Two local youths. Nothing to be concerned about. Satisfied, he approached Gaby.  
  
“Gaby,” he said softly, touching her knee with his hand.  
  
She bolted upright, her face a mess with tears and sweat. Her hair, once perfect and proper, had fallen out around her face and neck.  
  
“Illya,” she gasped, sitting up. “S-Solo just put me on this train. He said… he’d meet us, wherever. I-,” she sniffed and rubbed at her eyes.  
  
“Do not worry for him,” Illya replied, though he did cast a wonder towards his other comrade. Truth known, however, he could take care of himself. “Are you injured?” His low German piqued the interest of the old man reading the newspaper, who turned to look at them, but then simply turned back to his reading.  
  
“My arm,” she muttered, peeling back her jacket to reveal a small but long slice. She clutched what used to be her orange scarf to it, and moved it away slightly. “A knife.” Then she sniffed. “I was so stupid, Illya. I broke cover.”  
  
“The honeypot?” he asked as the train came to stop at another station.  
  
She nodded and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Yeah. And then, ugh, and then all this stuff happened. And Solo grabbed Izuki, and we ran but they were waiting for us – Solo just told me to get on the train and he’d meet us at the hotel, and that Vincent was meeting him for an extraction.” She shook her head. “But I blew cover.”  
  
“It happens to everyone,” Illya said, leaning back.  
  
“You?” she asked.  
  
“Once.”  
  
She smiled coyly then, pushing her hair from her face. “I would like to hear about it.”  
  
“Another time,” he promised lowly. “We should change at this station. Come.”  
  
They exited onto the platform and waited for the next train for Yokohama. Shouldering off his pea coat, he draped it over her shoulders, securing it by the top button.  
  
“Are you feeling okay, chop shop girl?” he asked.  
  
Gaby snorted. “Fine. Except for my arm. It’s killing me.”  
  
“Literally?” he asked as the train arrived.  
  
“No,” she chuckled. “Not literally. It’s an expression. It just hurts.”  
  
It was twenty minutes to Yokohama, and well after midnight. Her arm throbbed and she felt warm all over. When they claimed a side-by-side seat on the train to Yokohama, Gaby took the opportunity to nestle into Illya’s side, her head resting on his shoulder.  
  
“Chop shop girl,” he rumbled, maybe like a warning, or a sign of endearment – she couldn’t tell. She was tired and promised herself just two minutes, she’d close her eyes for just a moment.  
Too soon, Illya rumbled, “We’re in Yokohama.”  
  
Gaby blinked and moaned, rubbing at her eyes, smudging the remnants of her mascara across her palm. She sniffed and stretched and pulled Illya’s jacket closer around her person.  
“Where do we go now?” she asked, as they stepped out onto the curb. Illya looked around, only to freeze when an American gentlemen approached them.  
  
“Follow me, on behalf of mister Solo,” said the driver, motioning to his yellow taxi. Gaby looked to Illya warily. “I have been sent on behalf of the Yokohama Bay Hotel, a suite has been arranged for you at the behest of mister Solo.”  
  
“Solo?” Gaby frowned as Illya guided her towards the cab. “You said mister Solo did all this?”  
  
“Mister Solo, yes,” replied the driver, pulling out. Gaby looked towards Illya, who just shrugged.  
  
The hotel overlooked the bay and the sparkling lights of inner-city Tokyo. The sea breeze was a refreshing change of pace, save for the cold November night it had become. Illya approached the reception with Gaby, who had buttoned up his pea coat completely to hide her soiled clothing and look presentable amongst the people in the lobby – however, she had not thought to fix her hair, nor her makeup; her eyes smudged black from the eyeliner.  
  
They climbed the stairs to their suite, following the driver.  
  
“Everything has been transferred from the Central Tokyo, we hope you enjoy your stay. Please do not hesitate to let us know if we can be of anymore service. A nurse will be sent up in a moment, at the direction of mister Solo.”  
  
“It seems mister Solo has arranged everything,” replied Illya, opening the door to a luxurious suite.  
  
“It does, doesn’t it?” Gaby muttered, strolling in beside him. On the magazine table was a bottle of vodka, and she thanked him silently for remembering the finer details. “It seems he’s all right at least.” She flashed a note, hidden in a tumbler. “It says, ‘Enjoy, from S’. That’s it.” Then she shrugged. “Well, I can’t say no to that. Drink?”  
  
“Da,” he replied, scoping the place out. When he was finally assured there was no hidden surveillance, he picked up his tumbler of vodka from the table.  
  
Gaby sat back into the lounge and winced as she brought the tumbler to her lips.  
  
“Let me look,” Illya said, turning to sit beside her.  
  
“The nurse will be here soon,” she countered, “it’s really okay.”  
  
“I wish to inspect for myself,” he protested and Gaby huffed.  
  
“Fine, fine,” she said, shouldering her way out of his jacket. He peeled off the scarf, crusted and dried in blood. The gash was long and shallow and straight across her arm, just before the curl of her shoulder. Smaller self-defence cuts were scattered along her fingers and hands, already dried over and too small to worry about or cause any real pain.  
  
“Am I going to die?” she asked, a small smile creeping over the lip of her glass.  
  
“Not tonight, Chop Shop Girl,” he said before tipping his glass forward and letting a bit of vodka fall into the open wound. Gaby seethed and pulled away from him.  
“Dick!” she hissed.  
  
The knock at the door made Illya turn his head and get up to answer. When the nurse came into attend to the cuts and scrapes, he excused himself for a shower while the women worked. By the time he came out, Gaby’s arm was bandaged and she was trying to brush her hair back.  
  
“Allow me,” he said, coming behind her to brush out the tangles with a paddle brush.  
  
Gaby balanced her drink on her knee and stared at the fire in the hearth. Surprisingly, he was very gentle and worked through her hair slowly.  
  
“I never thanked you,” she said eventually, her lips tight. “For sending flowers for Dad.”  
  
“You did not need to.”  
  
“They must have been expensive.”  
  
Illya did not reply. They had been.  
  
“You were the only one, you know. Not Solo, or Waverly, or anyone. Just you. Sure, they said they were sorry. But what are words?”  
  
“Meaningless,” Illya agreed, moving the brush towards her scalp when he felt Gaby’s hand reach up and cover his.  
  
He moved his hand then, using his fingers to run through her tresses before tying it up in a simple ponytail, up and away from her face. When he moved in front of her, she was smiling at him in that warm way of hers after a few drinks, her eyes heavy and dark.  
  
“I will draw you a bath,” he replied.  
  
“Illya, you don’t need to take care of me,” she protested, finishing her drink.  
  
“I know this,” he called through the bathroom where, soon after, the sound of water splashed against the ceramic of the bathtub. Leaving the bathroom with the tap running, he sat down by the fire and picked up a leatherbound Russian book. “You will call me if you need assistance.”  
  
Gaby choked back a laugh as Illya slipped on his reading glasses – a thick round brown frame with thin lenses. Slowly, she got up from the lounge and moved into the bathroom. Leaving the door slightly ajar, she disrobed before tossing her soiled dress Illya’s way.  
  
When it landed just next to his head on the armchair, she laughed.  
  
“Gaby?” he muttered, his glasses falling down the bridge of his nose and his eyes turning dangerous and dark, like an ocean storm.  
  
“It’s ruined,” she stated simply, peeking out of the door before closing it.  
  
Illya sighed and picked up the garment. It had been expensive.

 

II

Gaby sighed in the water. It was soothing and drew the ache out of her muscles. She washed her face, washed her legs, under her arms, as far as she could reach of her shoulders and then her hands, all before the bathwater became too cold. Hanging on the wall was a white bathrobe, pristine and perfect. She slipped it over her shoulders and rolled the sleeves up to her elbow before tying the sash around her side. There was no need for panties, or a bra. Solo had told her to ‘enjoy’ – told them to ‘enjoy’, and so they would.  
  
He looked up from the book, from where his cheek was resting on his hand and his glasses had fallen down the bridge of his nose a litte, when Gaby came out of the bathroom, her face clear and her legs wet and bronzed. The robe she was wearing parted a way up her thigh, near a place he remembered grazing with just the tip of his fingertips, where it had been hot and wet and soft.  
  
“Gaby,” he said evenly, his accent thick, as she approached him.  
  
“Illya,” she replied, her voice caressing his name in a way he’d never heard from a woman’s lips. Very gently, she slipped his bookmark back into his novel, moved it out of his hands and slid onto him.  
  
He touched her hips, the small of her back, as his tongue darted out to lick at his lips. Her eyes were hooded, dark and large. How he wanted to get lost in them, get lost on top and under that soft body and lose himself in her mouth until he could barely remember his name.  
  
Her hands touched his face, his cheekbones, his temple, his jawline. He swallowed thickly and she watched his adam’s apple bob before placing a soft, questioning kiss near his right ear.  
  
“Gaby, we-,” he muttered lowly, turning his head to the side to press his nose into the side of her cheek.  
  
She kissed him again, down underneath his jawline.  
  
“We could make love tonight,” she whispered gently. “And not be Illya or Gaby. Not Russian or German, or secret agents, or anything,” she muttered, her eyes flicking back up to Illya’s. “We could just be a man and a woman. Who love each other.”  
  
She loosened the tie to her robe then and pushed the shoulders down, exposing the length of her collarbone and the roundness of her breasts. Then, she leaned back to pull at her ponytail, letting it spill out from her band and fall about. Illya leant forward and pressed his hand to the back of her neck, his other hand falling to the curve of her hip and thigh. Against his knee he felt her press against him, wet and warm. His mouth was suddenly dry but he kissed the column of her neck, gently, chastely before burying his face in her neck and revelling in the feeling of her fingers nimbly running through his hair.  
  
“Tell me,” she breathed. “Tell me that’s what you want, Illya.”  
  
He pulled her closer, crushed her against him and prayed to anyone out there, any higher being, any interventional god, that he’d never have to go without hearing it like that, just the way she said it.  
  
Standing, he gathered her in his arms and kissed her softly, and briefly.  
  
“Da,” he murmured against her cheek, their noses touching. “It is. More than anything.”  
  
He dropped her robe by the end of the bed as he approached the bedroom suite. She was naked and warm in his arms, kissing him softly. He sat on the edge of the bed and cradled the back of her head with his hand when her tongue entered his mouth. He accepted it readily, eager to meet her passion. As he felt her breasts, small and pert, press against his vest, he was suddenly itching to remove his clothes. There was too much between them. Once they were gone, he would be just a man, and for tonight, she would be his woman.  
  
But to do that, he would loathe to remove her from his lap or her mouth from his, and allowed the generous kisses she was giving for the next few long, blissful moments. From kissing her neck, moving down to her soft breast was enough to make him forget about undressing himself. As he ran his thumb along the underside of her right breast, it was enough to simply gorge himself on her, drink everything she offered him and push her for more, until they were both spent and the months of desire they’d incurred since beginning to work for U.N.C.L.E. was cleared. And then, he’d start all over again.  
  
“Greedy,” she hummed into his ear, her breath heavy and low. Her hands began to work at his clothes – his grey sweater vest, his button-down shirt, his tan corduroy pants, his oxfords which were nudged off with a dig in each heel and unceremoniously kicked across the room, where they hit the seat to the boudoir and the wardrobe. “I am completely naked… yet you still have almost every stitch of clothing on you.”  
  
“I am,” he agreed, pulling off his sweater vest and letting it drop to the floor. Gaby grinned as she began to unbutton his shirt, her eyes dropping from his to watch her fingers pop the buttons. Illya ran his hand through her hair. “I would like it very much to be with you, over and over again, as a man and a woman. I would have you never touch another man. You would want for nothing.”  
  
Gaby laughed as she worked down his shirt.  
  
“And what else?” she asked, looking up to him, a crooked smile on her face. She pushed his shirt aside then, letting it fall back onto the bed. Illya, with his hand underneath her buttocks, pushed her against his body, making her gasp as she felt him through his pants.  
  
His eyes were dark and serious as he said, “You would be my woman,” he murmured. “And we would live as man and woman. Together.”  
  
“What about Solo?” she asked gently. “Poor pet, we can’t just leave him be, can we?”  
  
“He can occupy the space underneath our house,” he replied and Gaby laughed into his neck. “Babysit our children.”  
  
“That sounds like a wonderful plan,” she hummed, leaning back and pressing her hands to his face. “A perfect plan.” And then she looked at him a little sadly, but he kissed her instead – instead of lingering on those thoughts, or voicing concerns, he kissed her and rolled so her back was pressed against the mattress and her hair was splayed out around her face.  
He stood to undo his belt buckle and slide it out of his pants. Holding it up, he cast a look to Gaby, who raised her eyebrows cheekily in response.  
  
“Perhaps another time,” he replied playfully as Gaby squirmed, before shucking down his pants and underwear.  
  
She kissed him as he crawled over her, his hair falling over his eyes. Slowly, He moved her back onto the bed, so her head was resting on the pillows before kissing down the slope of her neck, past her collarbone and towards her breast. Gingerly, he took her pink nipple into his mouth, letting her arch with a whimper into his mouth.  
  
When he felt her nipple pebble against his tongue, he moved to the next, looking up under his eyelashes to see Gaby, her mouth parted and her eyes closed, heady and heavy. How perfect she looked, he thought, how he wanted to capture this moment in time perfectly, and stay here against her warm body and forget everything he’d ever known.  
  
Leaving her breast, he kissed her softly.  
  
“I love you,” he muttered against her lips before sitting up on his elbows. “I have known for months, since our first mission, and it has only been confirmed in the missions following. I apologise for not telling you sooner.”  
  
“Sooner?” she frowned. “Illya, I, we -.”  
  
“I know it is… unwise to admit feelings,” he muttered. “Because of our line of work, I understand this.”  
  
Gaby shifted under him, her leg drawing up his side.  
  
“You idiot,” she shook her head. “It is probably unwise. I love you too, more than I am comfortable admitting.”  
  
He nodded then. “This will be our secret then.”  
  
She laughed, “Our secret? Who are we to keep it from?”  
  
“Solo. Firstly. He cannot be trusted,” he kissed her neck. “And then… Waverly.” He kissed a little lower, down to her collarbone now. “He may try to work against us.” Between the valley of her breasts. “Your friend… Friedrick in Engineering.”  
  
“We must keep it from him, as well?”  
  
“I have seen how he looks at you,” Illya replied, his lips now close to his navel, his hands sneaking under her buttocks.  
  
“I have seen how he looks at you,” Gaby countered and then shrieked suddenly when a swat landed fairly on her left ass cheek. She laughed as it stung, loved how Illya’s hand grabbed a handful of her pert flesh there and made it hurt so good. “And of course, Evelynn from accounting.”  
  
“Obviously,” he replied and then his mouth tasted her and she forgot where this conversation was going, only that he’d been slowly dragging said conversation down her body along with his tongue, lips, and teeth.  
  
Gaby arched into his mouth as her fingers found purchase in his shoulder and hair. He was too talented at it, too able to drag out sounds she’d never heard herself make. Too dedicated that she worried for a moment that he was not coming up for air, too engrossed in his efforts to make her come that he’d truly forgotten. When his tongue entered her, rubbed at her velveteen walls before slicking back out, her hips pushed back into his face and she came as he did it again, sobbing and shaking all over. The hand that was pressed against her left hip, it’s grip so hard she’d have four bruised dots over her kidney, came to rub at her, to prolong the rush and had her bowing off the bed.  
  
“Enough,” she gasped. “Stopp… Стоп, Illya!”  
  
He left her with that bark in his native language, panting heavily. He watched her breast heave as he wiped his mouth off on her inner thigh.  
  
Raising to his knees, he watched her twitch and spasm under him, her eyes boring into his. They were deep, angry and passionate. Licking his thumb and using it to tease at her nipple, he knew she was far from finished completely. He would have her all night.  
  
“Condom?” she asked breathlessly, looking towards the nightstand. “You have one, right?”  
  
“Da,” he muttered, getting up to rummage through his luggage – he had one or two on him recently, since working with Solo. The American had a habit of running to him when he was low, or slipping them into his hands with an eyebrow raised suggestively. Finally, it seemed, they'd come in handy.  
  
“Only one,” he replied. Gaby grinned.  
  
“Eager, are we?” she grinned.  
  
He ripped the packaging with his teeth and approached the bedside.  
  
“Let me,” Gaby replied, taking the condom from his hand and his cock in the other. When she squeezed and pumped him once, quickly, and then slower again, he almost buckled over. With a little fiddling, she managed to peel the condom over him, giving one last leisurely tug along his thick shaft and her thumb running across his red tip.  
  
“Gaby, you must stop,” he muttered, guiding her hand away. In response, she pressed her palm to his flat stomach, to his bellybutton and the divets of his abs. She sat up to kiss his navel, then across to his right hip, up to his stomach before she flicked her eyes up to him, her lower lip still sitting on his hot skin.  
  
When he reached down, he took a handful of her hair, sweeping back from the temples, into his fist. “I would like to have you now.”  
  
She kissed his stomach tenderly. “So then have me.”  
  
Laying back on the bed, Gaby spread herself so he could easily fit between her legs. But then Illya shook his head and frowned.  
  
“Not this way,” he muttered, turning to sit by the pillows. “My woman is strong,” he muttered, pulling her into his lap. “I would like you like this.” She frowned as she settled into his lap, unsure. But then, when she looked up and found his eyes staring directly into hers, felt how his arms crept up her back and encircled her, she knew why.  
  
“I like it like this,” she admitted, kissing him softly.  
  
“Gaby,” he hushed, pushing her hair back behind her ear. He kissed her as he pushed into her, slowly at first, letting her use her thighs and knees to choose the speed and depth. When she pushed back eagerly, he thought he might die, being buried deeply into her where it was so giving and warm and soft. But when she began to move, to rock back and forth, he let out a shuddering sigh and held her to him. One hand was at her hips, guiding her gently, the other at the small of her back as he rested her head into her neck and shoulder. Her fingers threaded through his hair and Gaby relished the small noises he made against her ear, his heady gasps and low subdued moans.  
  
She rode him harder. She kissed his temple, his ear, his cheek, his jawline. She felt his hands tighten around her hips and heard him groan and gasp and snarl against her ear.  
  
“Komm für mich, Illya,” she whispered against the shell of his ear. He gritted his teeth as his hips bucked. Sneaking a hand between them, Illya pressed and rubbed at her.  
  
“Join me.”  
  
Gaby huffed against his cheek, close to falling back over the edge herself. His fingers rubbed and pulled at her roughly, illiciting an immediate reaction. Suddenly she was arching back against his hand and felt her legs shake under the pressure. When, at the end of her tether, Illya grabbed at her hair roughly and pulled her back to him, releasing a guttural cry, she let him kiss her passionately. She indulged him in the noises she rarely made in bed, loved the way his hips slowed and his kisses became gentler, and was surprised to find herself very satisfied.  
  
“Gaby,” he muttered, allowing them to finally fall back into the pillows.  
  
“Leibling,” she nuzzled into his chest. “Du bist alles für mich.”  
  
He smoothed over her hair and smiled to himself before leaning down to kiss at her forehead. She smiled sleepily up at him and stretched, like a cat, along the length of his body.  
“We will sleep now,” she yawned and pulled the blankets up. “I love you.”  
  
“I love you, also,” he replied. “I will wake you when it is time to leave.”  
  
She wished he wouldn’t.

 

III

When the clock chimed eight, Gaby shifted a little against Illya, who had been up since six (Russian clocks were not as efficient as German ones, apparently) and had been contented to watch her sleep. It had been a rare night in which he had not dreamed. There had been no gaunt faces in the snow, nor the smell or the sound of that big train, the one his father had climbed aboard and never returned. It had been peaceful. It had been warm. He’d been pressed to her body the entire night and he was not so inclined to leave the bed so soon.  
  
However, they were expected at Narita airport in just over an hour.  
  
Gently, he used the arm already under Gaby to pull her closer and then pushed the hair from her face. She stirred gently, her nose crinkling, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheek. Softly, he placed a kiss to her forehead. And then to her nose. Her cheek. Her cupid’s bow, and then, by the time her eyes opened, he was pressing a kiss to her mouth.  
  
It turned up into a smile before he could kiss it.  
  
“What a nice way to be woken up,” she hummed, her voice thick with sleep. “And here I thought Russians were not so romantic.”  
  
“You must not have met many Russians,” he murmured. “We are masters of romance.” And then he kissed her, not to prove any point, but because he could. And he wanted to. And she would let him.  
  
Rubbing at her eyes, Gaby glanced to the clock.  
  
“Time to go to the airport, huh?”  
  
“It seems,” replied Illya but made no effort to move.  
  
Tracing the lines of his collarbone, she smiled. “We could stay here, you know. Make our way back to New York at our own pace. Stop in Hawaii.”  
  
“We would not be allowed to do this,” Illya replied.  
  
“We could just say… well, we missed the flight – people do it all the time,” she grinned.  
  
He took her hand then and kissed her fingertips. “We cannot be deceitful, leibling.”  
  
She shrugged with a sigh and sat up, adjusting her hair. “I suppose I am being very selfish.”  
  
“Very,” he agreed, sitting up to kiss at her shoulder. “I must have a shower. You may join me, if you wish.”  
  
In the glorious sight of watching a tall, broad, and naked Russian cross the suite like it was no one’s business almost made Gaby forget about his invitation, but she quickly followed him into the bathroom, her footsteps bounding and light.  
  
In the bathroom, the steam was beginning to rise. Under the stream, Illya was rinsing his hair. Gingerly, she stepped into the shower, the hot steam prickling at her skin.  
  
“Chop shop girl,” he growled deeply before leaning down and catching her mouth.  


IV

There had been no sight of them in the airport lounge, which was not strange, Solo thought, sipping on his martini, but still uncommon. The Russian was rarely tardy, and with thirty minutes until their flight to New York, it was something to raise an eyebrow at.

When Napoleon finished his drink and said goodbye to the very attractive waitress, he made his way to the correct gate, only to find his Russian comrade sticking out like a sore thumb. Napoleon knew there weren’t many operatives available for this Japanese mission, but did they really have to pick someone so tall and broad and… Russian?

But said Russian wasn’t standing to his full height. No, he was hunched over like he was being told a very secretive secret. Being told by a smaller girl wearing a Pucci pantsuit and a stylish updo.

“I see everyone made it on time,” Napoleon said, waltzing over to the couple. And definitely, it seemed they were a couple.

Immediately, Illya straightened up.

“We could not find you, Cowboy,” he replied.

“Oh yes,” said Gaby. “Glad to see you’re alright.”

He looked between his colleagues. “Well, I thought after everything that happened in Barcelona, I just thought…,” he turned to Gaby. “Well don’t you look ravishing in that little number, Gabs?”

Illya sighed and turned to approach the airflight steward by the desk.

“Get everything you need from him?” Gaby asked.

“Everything and a bar of soap to clean up after,” Napoleon replied. “He’ll not miss a check-in with the government again, I’d say.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Again, after Barcelona I suppose I owed you one,” replied Napoleon. “Was it good?”

She caught a nod from Illya. “Illya says we’re boarding,” she replied quickly, stepping away from Napoleon.

“Don’t worry,” replied Napoleon. “It’s a long flight home. We’ll have plenty to talk about, the three of us.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, please take the time to kudos or leave a comment <3


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